


your love is sunlight

by kermitwashingtonlincon



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), harold theyre in love!, theres like no plot here its just soff, yes the title is from a hozier song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:15:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23280817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kermitwashingtonlincon/pseuds/kermitwashingtonlincon
Summary: plotless domestic fluff that i think we all need right now
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 38





	your love is sunlight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SailorYue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorYue/gifts).



After an angel and a demon gave a very good pep talk to the antichrist and the world didn’t end as it was (allegedly) supposed to. Said antichrist went home to his family and left the garden to watch a circus set up with his friends, while said angel and said demon sat on a bench with a great weight lifted from their shoulders. The two beings held hands on the bus ride home, Aziraphale was very secretly glad that they were riding the bus for several reasons. 

Firstly, Crowley tended to either have both or no hands on the wheel, Aziraphale preferred the former but that would mean he couldn’t rub his thumb over a small scar on Crowley’s hand, he would have to ask what had caused it. Secondly, the Bentley didn’t allow them to sit this  _ close _ . Admittedly, the angel felt a bit silly for being so giddy to have his shoulder brush Crowley’s, but the demon felt very similarly, he wouldn’t say that to anybody but Aziraphale, however. Lastly, Crowley on the road was truly a “speed demon” and he normally had a determined look in his eyes (if visible, which they, shamefully, hardly were these days), and Aziraphale quite enjoyed a look at a calm Crowley with slightly pink cheeks and smile going up one side of his face. 

The pair stayed at Crowley’s flat for the night, discussing plants and plans for the morning. The two swapped bodies which felt like a strange violation of privacy to both of them but it was necessary if they wanted to keep doing this hand-holding thing.

But that was weeks ago now, and they had expanded past hand-holding, now Crowley had a tendency to wrap an arm around Aziraphale’s waist in the bookshop. Aziraphale would push up Crowley’s sunglasses when they fell down his nose, or adjust a lapel, or straighten that ridiculous shoe-string-scarf  _ thing _ he wore. Sometimes they would kiss each other’s knuckles, or even each other’s cheeks or temples, it always made both of their hearts soar.

Their conversations had moved from work that somehow led to dinner plans to the latest book Aziraphale was reading (he could go on for hours about it and Crowley would let him), or how Crowley had seen a horribly mistreated cactus in a shop window and was trying to get it into shape. Most nights were spent in the bookshop, sometimes they would head to Crowley’s. The few plants with the ability to bloom would flourish as Aziraphale walked past, weather Crowley had ordered them to do that or they were just drawn to Aziraphale’s grace was a mystery (the same had been the case with the garden at the Dowling estate while they practically raised the Wrong Boy).

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked one night over a glass of wine. The demon looked up and made a noise of acknowledgment. “Have you ever considered living somewhere else?”

“I don’t suppose I have, no. I hardly live here, it’s a place to store my alcohol and a place to sleep. Pit stop, really,” he took off his sunglasses and set them on the table, “Why?”

“I was just thinking,” Aziraphale played with the ring on his pinky finger, “Wondering if you’d like to live somewhere else,” his grip on the ring tightened, “with me, perhaps.” 

Crowley raised an eyebrow, “In the bookshop?”

“No, actually, I saw a quaint little cottage in the South Downs, by the ocean, had a lot of attic space for my books, big windows for plants and- I’m blathering on again, aren’t I?” Aziraphale slumped back in his seat slightly, a rare sight, he had moved his hands to the chain of his pocket-watch.

“Angel I’ve told you a thousand times I could listen to you talk through the night,” he moved closer to Aziraphale, “I’d love to move to a quaint little cottage in the South Downs with you.”

Somebody, Aziraphale was so cute when his eyes lit up like that, “Really?” 

“Of course I would, I love you, angel,” he said it like it was the most obvious thing. Well, it  _ was _ , but he had shown it in other ways until now. Like saving an idiotic angel from execution in 1793, or walking on holy ground to save Aziraphale again, or making Hamlet a hit play, or doing most anything for his angel. This was just saying it aloud. 

“Oh, goodness, dear boy, I love you too.”

Snakes technically can’t cry, they lack tear ducts, but Crowley had clearly not received the memo, as tears streamed down his face. Angels don’t often cry, they weep for the death of a saint in a painting or something, they don’t just tear up because what feels like an eternity of waiting to say something is finally over.

Aziraphale moved one hand behind Crowley’s back, the other grabbing his chin to pull his face closer and press a gentle kiss to his lips. The demon hesitated a second, not entirely sure what to do, before returning the gesture enthusiastically. It wasn’t a hungry or desperate kiss, it was gentle and loving as Crowley ran his hands through soft blonde curls ( _ Someone _ his angel had such soft hair).

“Angel stop crying, you’re going to make me cry harder,” Crowley half laughed and pressed Aziraphale down on the couch for another quick kiss.

“I’m sorry, just a bit overwhelmed is all,” Aziraphale laughed as well and ran a hand across the others cheek, “I love you a lot, Crowley.”

“I think I love you more.”

“Not a competition, dearest.”

“You’re no fun,” Crowley pouted, earning himself another chaste kiss.

“So would you actually like to see the cottage or-?”

“What would you do with all your books?”

“Lots of attic space, there’s even a little basement, you could keep some low-light plants in the windows down there if you’d like, and I read an interesting article on organization and I think I could manage to fit them all in places, we need far less cabinet space than humans, I think I could make it work,” he paused for a moment, “Oh and the windowsills are enormous! You could fit so many plants in them and any that don’t fit can go in the garden outside.”

“You thought of it all didn’t you, angel?”

“Perhaps.”

They stayed up the rest of the night, discussing the logistics of moving an entire bookshop and a glorified greenhouse with giant furniture could move into a little cottage by the sea.

By the end of the week, the pair had bought the cottage signing both their names onto the deed and Crowley was already starting to move his plants over. “Best take advantage of the warm weather, angel,” he’d said while Aziraphale was fixing the window boxes on all the windows, sleeves rolled up and a broad smile on his face. The two of them could easily use miracles to do all this, but they both enjoyed doing this the human way. The domesticity of it and the finding things long buried in closets and drawers was a good start to their lives on Their Side.

Admittedly, it took them both a while to adjust to this new version of their relationship. Crowley would put away a book Aziraphale had left somewhere and Aziraphale would be reminded how much he loves Crowley. 

“What are you looking at?” Crowley would ask.

Aziraphale would think for a moment and say “Oh! I love you. I keep forgetting I’m allowed to say it now!”

Crowley did the same thing sometimes. They had started to take every opportunity to make up for 6,000 years worth of I love you’s. 

There were so many more plants Crowley could grow with a proper garden, now. Sunflowers, for a start, these ones never seemed to droop. Forget-me-nots grew next to the carnations, the lavender just across the little stone path that all sorts of animals seemed to come and nap on in the afternoons. Morning glories grew from the window boxes but waited to wilt until the residents of the cottage had at least had a few minutes to appreciate them.

Entire days were spent in a giant four poster bed with sheer blue curtains and what some might call too many pillows. Parts of these days were spent with an angel and a demon curled together in varying states of undress. 

Sometimes the demon would sleep while the angel read. Sometimes the angel read aloud and played with his demon’s hair. Sometimes the pair would both sleep, the angel had come to appreciate it, though he couldn’t sleep by himself for some reason. 

They had dates everywhere they could. Some in Rome, some in Wessex, in botanical gardens, in their own garden under the pear tree. 

It was good, and comfortable and safe. 


End file.
